The dream of the 90s is alive in WebMD

According to WebMD, the most likely cause of hypertension in 30-something females is… cocaine. I fucking wish, WebMD. I wish I was born a decade before so I could destroy my cardiovascular health in a series of loft parties and identify with any character Parker Posey has ever played. I’ve never even seen cocaine. I took Ritalin once, I watched eleven episodes of Game of Thrones and thought about calling my Mom for help.

I couldn’t decide which cocaine related YouTube video to embed so here are both of them.


Black eyed

2020’s final gift was waking up to a black eye I don’t know how I got. Just straight up sucker-punched, by life, or maybe by myself, no opportunity to beg or bargain. Poetic, really. I got up to go to the bathroom in the morning and caught myself in the mirror and thought What the fuck, did I put on makeup last night? Oh fuck.

The wow, you are not fixing this gave way to the how the hell did this happen? and I noticed the pools of, for what it’s worth, weirdly lilac blood that made me originally think I had done some somnambulant 1980s eyeshadow tutorial, matched suspiciously with the frame of my glasses.

I am a dutiful glasses taker-offer. But, I had been watching Love Island and the villa had just been rocked by the news Jessica, having been dumped in the prior episode, had forsaken the covenant of the Hideaway and her island boyfriend Dom and immediately shacked up with some commoner. Dom, an adult man, had been deliriously excited about seeing her boobs, so it was hard not to feel for the guy despite the ridiculousness of actually honoring a three day reality TV relationship.

But I’ll be damned if he didn’t keep lulling me to sleep with his delightful accent and stiff upper lip response to getting mugged off. I started the same episode three or four nights in a row, but couldn’t get more than 20 minutes in without succumbing to his lad siren song.

The flaw, however, I watched Dom get pied off multiple nights, but only woke up with a black eye once.

So I went to the doctor, he’s examining my eye. I wore my glasses, and he is in support of the sleeping on my face theory. I try to let go that I’ll probably never know what weird nocturnal maneuvering I did on this particular night to weaponize a pair of Oliver Peoples.

Then he tilts my chin up, looks closely at my eye and says, “what is this, a week old?” I tell him no, it’s from last night

“No, there’s yellowing to this bruise, you must have done this to yourself multiple times.”

and I thought, fuck you Jessica, you thirsty slut.

Journal, movies

Ruth Platter Ginsburg

We went to see On the Basis of Sex at the new movie theatre with the fancy reclining seats and table service and pop-out tray tables that reminded me of college desks. Jess, who has always been more cultured than I am (when we went trick-or-treating I went as a bat, and she went as Jackie O), had been to Alamo Drafthouse many times and understood the human condition and the reflexive desire to cradle a bowl of food that reclining would induce. When you’re comfy and you want to eat you’re going to minimize the vessel to mouth ratio.

I had to rebel. She was right. I got a chicken tender platter. Delicious, but a missed opportunity to cradle a plastic bowl to my chest and bond with my food like a mother with a newborn child. Oh my god, I love chicken tenders though. I wish they didn’t have the connotation of being child’s food, because I think everyone should indulge in them more. Fried pieces of chicken that come with fries and honey mustard? Salt, sweet, protein, carbs, fat. You dip some chicken in the honey mustard then get bored and start dipping the fries and then get bored and dip the chicken. It’s kingly.

On to the film. I remain… confused. I think it boils down to, On the Basis of Sex could have made a great dry… I don’t know, prestige picture, or a Hollywood, legal Rocky, underdog story and instead it chose to split the difference. Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s life is fascinating, and I didn’t have a problem with the casting or anything like that. I’m not going to lie, the character of Marty Ginsburg was delightful and I certainly enjoyed looking at Armie Hammer playing an unwaveringly supportive feminist Dad and husband. My ovaries were like, purring. It just had the content and pacing of a much more “serious” film, with all the trappings of a blockbuster, as in, beautiful costumes, beautiful sets… Armie Hammer… just enough lazy exposition to take you out of the moment… some of the stuff with RBG’s teenage daughter awakening her to second-wave feminism was just too convenient.

But none of this was my biggest problem of the night. So ten minutes into the movie, I’m sitting there confused in a luxury movie theatre with my chicken tender platter and my blanket scarf (polar vortex) and I think, you know what’s making me uncomfortable, the fact I am eating chicken tenders in a recliner while watching Ruth Bader Ginsburg fight for my rights as a woman. There was no overcoming the dissonance of that one. Sex based discrimination is legal in America… Mmhmm sorry RBG let me just open my second honey mustard and get the pitch of my seat just right. I don’t think I can ever go back there for something more mentally taxing than The Meg 2 (God willing.)